


A More Productive Approach

by craple



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an early Friday morning, Will is forced to attend a therapy session with Hannibal after Jack Crawford found him drowning in his own sink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A More Productive Approach

**Author's Note:**

> i should NOT be shipping these two as hard as i do but I DO.

On an early Friday morning, Will is forced to attend a therapy session with Hannibal after Jack Crawford found him drowning in his own sink. Will admits that it is not a healthy way to start the day, but – he will take what he can get, for now.

Hannibal simply watches him across the table, taking in his soaked attire with calm disapproving eyes that Jack Crawford did not see, and Will steels himself and does not look away because he will _not_ apologise for something he does on purpose.

Jack Crawford did not suppose to see him the way he was, did not suppose to barge through his door like a madman then dragging him all the way into Hannibal’s mansion like a child that needs to be punished for misbehaving. Jack Crawford does not have that kind of authority over Will – neither does Hannibal, for that matter. Will is not going to give them the satisfaction of thinking they do.

Hannibal leans back, deeper into his couch, does not take his eyes off Will’s and steeples his fingers from where they rest on his lap. “Every morning after you wake up from a particularly explicit nightmare that leaves you aroused, you try to drown yourself in your sink.” It is not a question yet not-quite a statement. Will does not know what to do with that.

“Have you ever considered the act of masturbation, Will?”

Now – he certainly does not know how to deal with _that_ question, straightforward as it is. Doctor Lecter is nothing but straightforward, after all, it is something of a requirement in his line of duty.

Will considers the question, tilts his head and blinks at the man sitting in front of him, looking pristine as ever even when he is clad in nothing but a black-silk robe at six o’clock in the morning. The question itself is not personal, of any sorts, though perhaps a tiny bit.

It is a professional suggestion, Will supposes, if just Doctor Lecter does not look so calculating right now, cataloguing each of Will’s response in a way that reminds Will of his latest dream; of a man hunting another, only this man does not consume nor does he love; he traps his prey before dissecting them apart, inch by torturous inch, as it is the only activity where he can find true carnal pleasure at its max.

It will be hypocrisy of him if he says that it does not arouse him as much as it does the predator in his dream.

Fortunately, that knowledge is not for Doctor Lecter to know, even though Will is very much positive that the tightening in his pants is not something one can dismiss so easily, especially when one happens to be the best psychiatrist FBI approves of. Will is terrified, but not of Hannibal, no.

Of Hannibal’s intent, he at least can admit to be terrified of that.

“Contrary to popular belief, Doctor Lecter,” Will begins. “Sex does not alarm me.”

And Hannibal – Hannibal smiles. A flash of sharp white teeth beneath pale chapped lips that reveal nothing but genuine trust, except there is challenge in Hannibal’s eyes, gone as fast as it came. Will does not take kindly to challenge, especially now, when he is rebellious and petulant and wants nothing other than proving everyone’s wrong.

(There is a possibility that this person, whoever it is, might be a teenager, then, or someone with mentality just as young.)

“Quite right,” Hannibal says. “What truly alarms you is the idea of trusting another. If you do not trust yourself, then you cannot trust someone else either, isn’t that right William.”

The smile Hannibal offers to him is possibly the most Will can get out of the man for the day. But the predator in his head, the one who is childish and petulant and craves Hannibal’s attention (possibly with a lover, Will thinks, reminding himself to tell Crawford later) will not stop for less.

Before he is aware of what, exactly, he is doing – Will has already sprung to his feet and is across the table in a matter of seconds. Hannibal’s chair thuds against the wall behind him almost noiselessly, and the surprise written on his face, in his eyes, is almost as satisfying as the one he has when Will removes his pants out of the way and settles, comfortably so, on Hannibal’s lap.

His arse has been stretched with three fingers today; just a few minutes before he decided to _‘cool’_ his head a little bit into the basin, from the thrill of adrenaline the predator in his head feels alone. There is no condom in sight, but it does not matter. “I trust _you_ ,” Will tells him, snatching the bottle of fragrance oil sitting next to Hannibal’s papers, shoves Hannibal’s robe out of the way as he sinks his fingers two at once into his entrance.

“I trust you,” Will says again, and again, and then Hannibal is hard in his clutch, on the palm of his hand, and Will does not _wait_ any longer. He impales himself on Hannibal’s cock; feels the burn and the resistance as his body takes and takes and _takes_ – and Will gasps and moans and _whines_ , half in pain and half in pleasure, when Hannibal’s hip shifts on its own and his cock nudges against Will’s prostate.

The doctor looks far from uncomfortable, Will thinks, squirming around Hannibal’s cock inside him. The little breaths he makes – a chorus of _ah, ah, ahh_ – he can’t stop it, no matter how hard he tries. Will’s fingers are digging into the flesh of Hannibal’s shoulders, head bent close to Hannibal’s face.

All he can think about is Hannibal hating him, but then Hannibal sits upright, pulls Will flush against his front – and the angle is better now, _so_ much better, and Will is trying to fuck himself on Hannibal’s cock better, please, please, _please_ –

“Our predator, dear Will.” Hannibal murmurs, teeth closing around the patch of skin below his ear. “You were saying he is aroused by the hunt, quite young, and has a male lover for a companion.”

He pins Will in place with both hands on Will’s hips, fingers curling and gripping tight, and then Hannibal lifts him up and lets him fall again, cock hard and pulsing inside of him, and Will _keens_ at the feeling of Hannibal’s silk robe rubbing against the head of his cock, he can’t _think_ –

“Kill him Will,” Hannibal whispers, practically _purrs_ the words into his ear, and Will freezes and comes so hard slumps into the heat of Hannibal’s body, and moans quietly when he is filled in return.

* * *

Jack Crawford calls asking if Will is alright, half an hour later.

“Will is fine,” Hannibal tells him. “He is making progress during the therapy session, and I will be texting the details of our serial killer in a moment.”

Crawford practically beams they can hear it through the speaker, and Will will probably feel guilty about this later, of getting fucked on his knees whilst he muffles his moans into the pillow he’s smashed his face with, Hannibal’s soothing voice in his ears, perfectly deadpanned when he speaks to Jack then turns like sex when he hangs up, but Will cannot just muster the strength right now.

Hannibal smiles against his jaw, whispers another “Kill him, Will” into his ear as his finger slips into Will along with his cock, and Will comes and does not remember a thing.


End file.
